Becoming King
by Foxtrotter44
Summary: The companion to my piece "Becoming Queen," this is a character exploration about Alistair's feelings on his wedding day. Kinda fluffy, a teensy bit angsty :) one-shot.


A/N: So I wrote this as a companion piece to "Becoming Queen," although it can stand alone. A second-person look at Alistair's feelings on his wedding day. If you read my oneshot "Treat Her Right," you may recognize something from that in here ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age.

* * *

You are a King.

No, you are _The _King.

No, you are some idiot imposture who just so happens to bear a great and striking resemblance to the last King and for some stupid reason they put you on the throne and you don't know anything about _being _King and it seems like the only thing you can do right is stab at things with a sword and look good in a crown and-

You sigh, cutting off your internal dialogue and stare straight into the floor-length mirror in front of you. You only hope that the people see you today as a confident and proud man and not the sweaty and nervous little boy you know you are. More importantly, you hope _she _sees you in the former light and not the latter-though you know there's no point in wishing that because she'll see right through the confident facade; she always does. She knows you better than anyone.

That's why you're getting married to her today.

Well, that's not _entirely _why, or even the majority of the reason. The King (your brother) died, leaving you as the only living heir to the throne, although 'heir' you hardly are-bastard son, never once publicly acknowledged by your father. She's the last of a great noble line, a family that lords over a great deal of your country. The knowledge that she would be at your side made the thought of a bastard's ascension much easier for the nobility to swallow. Not only that, but you're both heroes in the eyes of the common people. "A more perfect pair you'd never find," everyone keeps saying.

None of that matters to you, though. You were shocked when she proclaimed she would wed you in front of the nobility, but weren't about to object. You'd spent nearly a full year with her at your side, and somewhere along the way you fell in love. Standing next to her, anything seems possible. Even you being King. In truth, you would marry her ten times over.

* * *

It hasn't been easy for you, these past six months. In fact, it's been incredibly difficult ever since you inherited the throne of this war-ravaged country with absolutely no training whatsoever to help you. Everyone's always quick to tell you how well you're apparently doing, and you have to admit things could be much worse: the repairs to the city are moving along quickly and a larger number of the nobility than you imagined seem eager to swear their fealty. None of that changes the fact that you still don't have a damned clue how to rule a country, of course. You thank the Maker every day your people don't see reason and have you lynched.

You look back in the mirror, straightening your collar. You _do _look pretty good, you admit to yourself, wearing a doublet with golden thread woven in elegant, intricate patterns along the red fabric, the Theirin heraldry stitched into the breast. You've shaved and washed yourself, and that's one good thing you've gotten out of this whole 'King' arrangement: ability to bathe in warm water whenever you wish it. Actually, there are quite a few perks, you have to grudgingly admit: you sleep in the softest, largest bed you've ever seen, fresh fruit is delivered to the palace everyday, and, oh, not to mention that when you talk, people actually pay attention. That's certainly something you're not used to.

* * *

You're amazed at how much time and effort has gone into this day. If you had your way, the wedding would have occurred months ago in a small private ceremony without all the unnecessary pomp and circumstance, but you never get your way, so instead you're having this enormous wedding with every important person in the country there to watch you exchange your vows and dance with your bride and _Oh Maker _you'll probably be expected to give a speech and-

You're internally rambling again. You've been doing that a lot lately. Hundreds of butterflies seem to have made their home in your stomach. A week earlier, during one of your usual daily lessons with Eamon on how to not destroy the entire kingdom, he had asked you how you were feeling about your "impending nuptials." As per your default response to literally everything, you had deflected with humor. "Well, there's a rumor going around that the cook's procured seventeen different kinds of cheeses for the event, so I'm rather looking forward to it. Assuming the rumor's true, of course."

Eamon didn't respond and just looked at you with a thoughtful expression, which was surprising. He usually rewarded your jokes with a stern lecture on "the proper behavior befitting of a King." After a moment, he finally spoke. "When a man is in love, Alistair, on the day of his wedding he will know what it is to feel the happiest he's ever been in his life _and_ the most terrified, all in the same breath. There is... No other feeling in the world to compare it to, except perhaps the birth of his first child."

You had sat there, trying to think of something profound to say in return. "Huh."

At your dumbfounded expression, Eamon's mouth had quirked up in a wry smile. "Just try not to vomit during the ceremony."

Today, you're beginning to understand what Eamon had been getting at. You've already vomited twice.

* * *

Everything leading up to this day has felt very surreal to you. Growing up in the Chantry, you never imagined you could ever fall in love with someone, much less get married. It's strange... You've never had a family to call your own, and now you're about to become a part of one, as broken as it may be. You had first met Elissa's brother many months ago, but that had been very brief as he had needed to clean up the mess waiting in Highever. You finally met him again when he'd arrived in Denerim for the wedding, and that was when you learned that true fear wasn't battling an ogre atop an ancient tower. It wasn't getting trapped in a dreamworld not knowing how or if you'd get out. It wasn't even facing a corrupted old god soul trapped inside the body of a mighty dragon.

No, true fear was squirming under the scrutinizing glare of your wife-to-be's protective older brother.

You were sure Fergus absolutely hated you, but after that first real meeting, he strangely (or not strangely at all, depending on who you asked) warmed up to you, nodding as you passed in the hall or listening when you spoke (still such a new concept). He'd challenged you to a duel once, and instead of storming off angrily when you somehow beat him, Fergus had simply laughed and clasped your arm. Like a brother. A brother who wouldn't hesitate to castrate you if you ever hurt his sister, but still.

* * *

Now, staring at your reflection and wondering if you're going to vomit again, you think of the people here to watch you get married. Not the lords and ladies, but your companions from the past year and a half. The important people. Wynne, Leliana, Zevran, Shale, even Oghren (who you _begged _to not get too drunk at the reception, lest he try to make a toast)... No Morrigan. And that's how you like it.

You wonder if Elissa wishes Morrigan was there. They were somehow such good friends, despite your frequent objections, but after everything that's happened... Well. You don't talk about it. You just can't.

* * *

You pull yourself away from the mirror and to the golden crown sitting on a table. You lift it gingerly, feeling its weight in your hands, before placing it atop your head. Someone knocks on the door, and you turn just as Eamon enters. He looks at you a moment with an expression you can't quite place. Pride, perhaps?

Eamon speaks. "Your Majesty, it's time."

You blanch. Already? "Oh." The word sounds strangled.

Eamon's eyes crinkle in the corners. "Are you ready?"

"No."

He laughs, the expression he wore when he walked in returning. "You know, I was just thinking, seeing you in that crown, you remind me so much of-"

"-A bloody terrified little boy playing dress up?"

Eamon clasps you on the shoulder. "I was going to say your father."

For once, you don't know what to say.

Eamon continues. "Do you remember what I told you a week ago?"

"Of course," you mumble. "I definitely have the vomiting part down."

He smiles. "Try to remember the rest as well."

And today, as you watch your bride walk towards you, and you think she looks more beautiful than Andraste herself, you do remember the rest. And Eamon was completely right. There is no other feeling in the world to compare it to. You are the King, and you finally have your Queen.


End file.
